When the sun appeared they continued east, using a road that Zared confirmed would take them to Baserno. As they walked along, Clarin quizzed him about his country. Cyprian, Clarin knew, came from the east of Persala, the port city of Lumberco, whereas Zared had told him he had lived in the capital. He would know the area better than anyone else.
‘How long will it take us to get to Baserno?’
‘At this pace, with no interruptions, three days.’
‘What have you heard of the Persaleian Shield?’
‘Nothing. This long-ago war against the Isharites you speak of—alliances with Krykkers and Caladri, magic weapons—it’s not a story that Persaleians know. Our history begins with Avilius, founder of Persala. We then conquered the north: alone, not with allies; by force of arms, not with magic. Two centuries after Avilius, our armies drove the Drobax away at the Battle of the Tarn. If this war fought with magic weapons did happen, it was before our empire was born.’
Clarin didn’t really know his history, not like people such as Soren. Although Belwynn had told him what the Caladri wise man, Szabolcs, had said in Coldeberg, he was more than vague on the when of the story.
‘If it did exist,’ he persisted, ‘forgotten somewhere, where would it have been kept?’
‘Baserno. There are two obvious locations: the Imperial Palace, or the Temple of Ludovis. The Temple has a depository where the wealthy can store their money and possessions. It’s known to contain many ancient artefacts.’
‘Have you been?’
‘I’ve been to the Temple plenty of times. But my family never had anything worth putting into the depository, nor do I know where exactly the items are kept. That’s a secret kept by the priests, because the riches held there would be a target for thieves.’
Clarin knew he wasn’t the smartest. He’d always been content to leave the thinking to people like Herin and Soren. But he had worked out there was more to Zared than the young man let on. He said his family had modest wealth, that his father was a shopkeeper. But at some point, he had been trained to fight properly. Then, there was the fact that the rest of the Persaleians deferred to him, despite his young age. There was something he wasn’t telling Clarin. No doubt he had his reasons. And as long as he helped Clarin to find the Shield, which he’d promised he would, did it really matter?
They followed the road to Baserno. This part of Persala was sparsely settled, heath and gorse stretching out in every direction. A good morning’s walk saw them approaching a settlement. Zared named it Bineto, a town that straddled the road to Baserno. He described it a focal point for the local area, as well as a market for Kalinthian traders in years past.
Clarin deliberated over their tactics one last time. His instincts told him to skirt around the town, but Zared and the Persaleians argued against this.
‘From now on,’ Zared said, ‘there will be town after town, then cities. There is no countryside we can hide in: this is Persala. Either we pass through these places or we give up.’
Zared’s plan was simply to boldly walk into Bineto. Once there, they would get a feel for the situation. If challenged, they would pose as soldiers serving Ishari. Clarin knew they had a chance of getting away with such a ruse. The Isharites had humans in their armies. But the two Dog-men were key. It was known that their kind served Ishari, so their presence made such a claim more convincing. Zared would do the talking if his countrymen began to ask questions. But if it didn’t work, they would be in serious trouble, seriously fast.
And it wasn’t just that. The farther they got into Persala, the more Zared was gaining control over what they did, and the more Clarin was fading into the background. Had he made a mistake coming here in the first place?
Clarin sighed, shaking himself out of his introspection. They were here now, and Zared’s plan was the only one they had. It was pointless to think about it anymore. They walked for Bineto.
Bineto had known better times, that was for sure. The streets were filthy, uncared for. Many of the houses were run down, if not empty, and when they got into the town centre many of the shops were boarded up. The townsfolk had a sullen, fearful look about them. They made for the market area, where a few stalls huddled together in one corner of the square, the rest of it empty.
Zared and Cyprian moved over to the stallholders with purpose, hailing them in loud, confident voices, as if they were meant to be here. The following conversations were quieter, and Clarin, stood with the rest of the group out of earshot, looked about them and tried to think.
There were no soldiers here. That said something. The Isharites had sent an army south—they were set on conquest. They wouldn’t want to waste men occupying the towns of Persala if they didn’t have to. From what Zared said, there were many settlements bigger than Bineto. It suggested that they would likely be unoccupied, too. The population were cowed, serving their new masters. Should a rebellion stir, troops would be sent in to put it down, from the larger centres such as Baserno. Clarin nodded to himself, feeling like he was gaining a sense of the state of the country. A large population, defeated and leaderless, no doubt many pressed into the Isharite armies. Relatively few occupying troops—just enough to keep them submissive. It was possible, in such a place, for them to pass through unchallenged. To somehow make their way into Baserno. And once there? They had to find a shield that no-one knew existed.
The three Persaleians returned, arms full of loaves of bread and rounds of cheese that they had purchased from their compatriots.
‘Well?’ asked Clarin.
‘Not very talkative—suspicious, as you might expect,’ said Zared. ‘Siavash is in charge in Samir Durg, his opponents dead or fled. Haskany has no king or queen any more, the country is said to be as reduced as Persala is. The people here pay heavy taxes, mostly in foodstuffs and other items for the armies. Many of the younger men have been recruited to fight, making life harder for those who remain. Other than that, so long as they do what they are told, they are generally left alone.’
‘The other towns are likely to be the same?’ Clarin asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Good. Then let’s get moving. The sooner we leave, the sooner these people forget we were ever here.’
They continued east, stopping at places much like Bineto. Each town had the same layout, central plazas surrounded by parallel roads. Some were larger, some smaller, but in its essentials their experience was the same at each one. Communities that were suffering, but somehow surviving, under Isharite rule. Zared spoke with the people: sometimes it was traders, at other times mayors or other dignitaries, even passers-by on the street going about their own business. They were cautious, wary of strangers. When pressed, each said the next town along was the same as them. In one town, a place called Pontecchio, they spent the night in a row of empty houses, their occupants either taken away by Isharite soldiers, or had left of their own accord, trying to make a better living elsewhere.
The next morning Zared announced a change of plan.
‘There’s news of soldiers in the next city,’ he explained. ‘It would be better for us to detour around it, just in case. It only involves going down some less travelled roads to other settlements, and then cutting back to the main road, bypassing the city. It will add no more than two hours travel time.’
They set off. A small road, better described as a track, took them north of Pontecchio, where they soon found themselves passing the well-tended fields of the Persaleian countryside. It seemed to Clarin that in the rural areas, life carried on not so much different than it had before.
There was something about the outdoors that made Clarin feel better about things. His mind wandered to Belwynn, how he had made a right mess of things in Heractus. He had genuinely thought that he would declare his love, she would return it, and they would settle down on a farm somewhere to live out their days. In hindsight, he had been stupid. She was with Theron now. And maybe, he just had to admit to himself that she was better off that way. That didn’t mean i
t didn’t hurt, though. He had already lost Herin. Those were the two people in the world who really meant anything to him.
‘We’ll head up here,’ Zared said from the front, speaking in a voice loud enough to carry to everyone. He was pointing towards a steep slope that led up to a mound. ‘We can get a decent view of the area from up there, check we’re going the right way.’
Wordlessly, the group followed Zared and the Persaleians up to the top of the mound. It was tough going, Clarin’s thigh muscles protesting by the time they got to the top. The group shrugged packs off shoulders and looked around.
There were, indeed, good views of the surrounding countryside. A pile of stones, some very large, had been placed in the middle of the mound. Clarin walked over to inspect it, making his legs stretch out a little after the climb. They had definitely been carried up, he decided. Maybe they were atop a burial chamber of some kind. It reminded him of the vossi mound in the Wilderness, where they had been surrounded by the creatures, close to defeat, before Soren had cast a spell to scare them off. Maybe once, many years ago, vossi had lived here. Or some other group of humans. Or Caladri, or Lippers. Maybe this mound was the most important place in the world to them. Now, no-one even knew what it was.
‘Clarin!’ came a shout, urgent sounding.
He turned to see Jurgen gesturing at him. He and Rudy were at one end of the mound, looking down the slope.
Clarin ran over, one hand on the hilt of his sword. Men in armour, holding spears, were making their way slowly up the mound, looking up at them. They were spread out, all along the base of the mound.
The Dog-men barked a warning. Turning, Clarin looked at their position a few feet away. He didn’t need to go over to confirm that there were men there too. They were surrounded.
At the far end of the mound, where Zared and the Persaleians had positioned themselves, armed men had already made it to the top of the slope. Zared and his men were helping them up.
Clarin took a few paces towards them. Zared gave him an apologetic look.
A spearman stood next to Zared, as big and strong looking as Clarin, with a huge shield. He pointed his spear in Clarin’s direction, then at the other members of the group, as more soldiers crested the mound behind him.
‘We’re going to need you to drop your weapons.’
16
Exodus
THE CALADRI WARSHIPS had already put to sea. Their role was to offer protection to the armada that would transport the Krykker people—plus the Grand Caladri refugees—across the Lantinen. This armada consisted of the Caladri trading vessels, and the Vismarian fleet, which had crossed the Lantinen with Red Serpent. Rabigar had asked for their help, and they had given it. Their leader, Sevald, the same man who had spoken at the Krykker moot, hadn’t wasted time debating it, or demanded anything in return; they had gathered their ships and sailors and set off immediately. Rabigar would always be grateful to them for that.
Rabigar stood with Maragin, looking down on the long, patient line of Krykkers, waiting their turn to embark on foreign ships. It was natural to think that they had somehow failed their people. But even now, a wave of Drobax, unstoppable in number, roamed over their lands. And wherever the Grendals had manned mountain passes to fight this plague, the dragon had arrived. Destroying their forces, burning Krykker and Drobax alike until the passes were cleared, only grey ash was left as a sign of its passing.
Maragin had put an end to using her soldiers in such a way. She had blocked all the entrances and tunnels that led underground, except for the one they now stood by. She had conceded all of her clan’s territory above ground to the invaders. Halls, houses, fields; all were lost. Whatever could be saved, had been taken underground. Enough food to feed a small army. Underground wells provided an endless supply of water. The Krykker resistance would continue. They would never give up their homeland.
It was time to close the last entrance, before the Drobax reached them. Maragin ordered her soldiers to set fire to the wooden props they had put in place underground. Once they gave way, the walls would collapse, and a tonne of stone come crashing down where they now stood. It was time to clear the area. Maragin had chosen a thousand Krykkers who would stay behind. Many of them were rock walkers, capable of forcing their bodies through Krykker rock. Rabigar allowed himself a grim smile at the thought of them emerging, with night as cover, to slaughter the Drobax above ground, before disappearing again. He wished he could be with them. But as Maragin had said, he had other responsibilities.
He paced backwards, taking a last look at Maragin, before she disappeared into the darkness of the tunnel behind her.
He kept moving back. He felt the ground shake, and saw small stones and debris sift down the wall of rock above the tunnel entrance, as the ground underneath it began to weaken. Then, without further warning, the rock gave way. Huge chunks of it cascaded down towards him, and he skipped backwards faster to avoid the cloud of dust that came behind. He knew that the same thing had happened inside the tunnel.
He waited a while, allowing the dust to settle. The wall and the entrance had disappeared, replaced by an untidy jumble of cracked rock. The Drobax wouldn’t even know that an entrance had once stood there, never mind be able to clear a way inside. There was nothing else for Rabigar to see here. Finally, he turned around, and made his way down to the harbour.
Here Hakonin, leader of the Swarten clan, was organising the evacuation of a whole people. The pier was full of Vismarian ships and Caladri traders getting loaded. Once full, they would cast off and sail out to sea, while the next vessel would steer its way in to replace it.
‘Get on the next ship,’ Rabigar said to Hakonin. ‘We need to make sure you get across. You’re in charge now.’
‘Is it done?’ Hakonin asked, looking up at the rocky scree where the tunnel had stood a few moments before.
‘It’s done. It worked. They won’t get in that way.’
Hakonin nodded. He signalled to his household troops, who stood in a group along with family members, and they made their way down to the harbour, identifying a Caladri trader that looked large enough to hold them all.
That was the last of the stragglers. Everyone else was already in the line, waiting their turn for the next ship. They had nearly done it. Only the crossing itself to go, and they would have pulled off a remarkable logistical feat.
Then he heard the noise. Turning, he looked back towards the rocks. He saw nothing, but he knew what he had heard. Drobax.
‘They’re coming,’ he whispered to himself.
Rabigar placed a hand on the hilt of Bolivar’s Sword. He would make a stand here if necessary.
The noise came again, the shouts of thousands of Drobax, echoing down to the shore from the mountains. Rabigar still couldn’t see anything, but with only one eye he knew that didn’t mean they weren’t visible to others.
The Krykkers in the line for the ships had heard it this time, and panicked voices reached him, urging those ahead to go faster. He turned to look.
‘Calm yourselves!’ he barked. The last thing they needed after all this was a last-minute stampede for the boats. They were Krykkers. They were better than that.
Some of the Krykkers left the line to stand with him, ready to fight if need be.
‘Can you see anything?’ he asked one of them, a man half his own age.
‘They’re on the high ridge, some already past it. They’ve seen us.’
Rabigar nodded. ‘Then they may get here before all the ships have left. We must keep them away.’
‘I’ll fight with you, Rabigar Din,’ the man said.
Rabigar grunted.
They waited, a thin line of Krykkers, Rabigar straining his eye to see, until he saw movement high up. The Drobax were moving fast, keen to get to them before all the ships were cast off. But they were in a disorganised mess, not moving in regiments, but in ones and twos. Rabigar was sure they would be able to hold them off for a while. He looked anxiously into the sky. So long as th
e dragon didn’t make an appearance.
‘Look!’ someone shouted, pointing.
Rabigar turned to see. Those Drobax who were nearest were under attack. Emerging from the rocks, groups of Krykkers intercepted them. The Drobax behind screamed in anger, their attention diverted to the new threat.
Maragin’s rock walkers. Their intervention was already working.
Rabigar smiled.
‘We’ll be fine. Come on, let’s go.’
They returned to their positions in the line. They all cast the odd look behind them now and again. The rock walkers had disappeared, but they had done their job.
The line was diminishing, and soon Rabigar found himself boarding the last ship, a Vismarian vessel. It was big enough to take on the remaining Krykkers, though to Rabigar it didn’t have the same feeling of stability he had experienced on Red Serpent. Still, if it got them across the Lantinen he wasn’t going to complain.
Taking a place on deck, Rabigar made himself look back towards his homeland. So recently he had gained the right to return, after half a lifetime as an exile. And now he had been forced out again.
There, the first of the Drobax had descended from the rocky scree to the shoreline, looking out at their escaped quarry. Forced out of his home by those creatures. He made himself look, holding on to the image, so that when he needed to, he could recall it and use his anger to do whatever he had to. Because whatever it took, he would return his people to their homeland. That was his vow.
The Weapon Takers Saga Box Set Page 88